


Harry Potter's Tale: Final Fantasy VIII-2

by Argeus_the_Paladin



Category: Final Fantasy VIII, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Final Fantasy Mythological Cameos, Fish out of Water, Gen, Harry Potter was Adopted by Other(s), Post-Canon, time compression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argeus_the_Paladin/pseuds/Argeus_the_Paladin
Summary: "Three years had gone by since the sorceress Ultimecia was defeated. Not all had been well: new threats and tensions emerge in the horizon, the unstable political climate post-Ultimecia and a personal tragedy had been taking its toll on the now-prestigious Commander of Garden. Then came Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, whose arrival was a tragedy of its own.Then again, dysfunctional a family as it was, Garden tended to solve quite a few more problems than it created..."





	1. Adoption by Fire

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, some initial disclaimers/general notice:
> 
> 1) First thing first: All disclaimers apply. All things Harry Potter are copyrighted trademark of J.K. Rowling and other owners. All Final Fantasies and all characters and settings therein are legal property of Square Enix - may they never run out of steam!
> 
> Also, since the story takes place post-Ultimecia, expect Final Fantasy VIII spoilers.
> 
> 2) While I have been considering writing a Harry Potter fanfic for nearly two decades now, being of that generation whose age matched that of the films' actor, the sheer size of the fandom and the fact that I thrive in weird crossovers (which may or may not be accepted) has largely frightened me from doing so - until last week. I have come across a SLEW of extremely fascinating and well-written Harry Potter crossovers, thanks to the good sir/madam Quatermass who wrote Harry Gainsborough and the Cetra Heritage. If you do frequent this site and come across this, let it be known you've inspired me. 
> 
> 3) I believe a little explanation of the setting is in order: 
> 
> The story begins three years after the defeat of Ultimecia in Final Fantasy VIII, and its main plotline does not start until ten years after that. At this point, the world is left with two main powers: Galbadia on one side, and Esthar on the other, with a small number of city-states scattered all over the world. 
> 
> Garden, with Squall at its head, has become a force to be reckoned with, and not just militarily: In canon Squall's father rules one of the major power, and his father-in-law is very likely in power in the other (this is virtually fanon by now). This basically means Squall is in an unique position where the only limit to his power is his imagination, so vast is his political influence and the elite at his disposal. 
> 
> But given the character development Squall gets during the last two discs, he is not going to do this. Instead, a post-game Squall who has learnt to open up and accept others into his life and struggle is quite likely to use all his power, magic and mundane, to turn the world into a better place for all (personally I'd like to think Rinoa is going to be a good influence on par with Aerith once she matures a little, but do feel free to disagree). 
> 
> That much is either canon or very plausible fanon. Now this, here, is my personal fanon: The defeat of Ultimecia does save the world and the timeline, but it ends up *destabilizing* the space-time continuum. As such, things from other universes, Final Fantasy or otherwise, tends to turn up every so often all over the world basically at random. Harry Potter is brought along in one such rift, while Dr. Odine, being the weird scientist he is, would spend a decade studying the phenomenon to find a way to control/profit from it. The emergence of such "rifts" would also make the world far less safe of a place and therefore requires the constant service of Garden and SeeD as peacekeepers, guards and emergency problem-solvers. 
> 
> As to *what* Squall and company will try to do to make the world a better place, well, that is the content of the story.
> 
> 4) Declaration of OCs: As the story is set a generation after FFVIII, I am forced to include a number of original characters to represent the children of the game's main cast who would take up the collective mantle of their parents. This is only a list of their name and parentage, for their appearances, histories and personalities will be made clear in the telling of the tale:
> 
> \- Cody Kinneas (Son of Irvine and Selphie).  
> \- Hisame (Kanji: 氷雨) (Daughter of Fujin and Raijin).  
> \- Arlene Dincht (Daughter of Zell and the pigtailed librarian).
> 
> Do also keep in mind that these characters represent my preferred couples from the game. Not that there is much to dispute here: Final Fantasy VIII does not have an extremely large cast.
> 
> 4) I have a tendency to "pare down" characters (you hear it here first: An euphemism for "killing people off") - Consider this your fair warning.
> 
> Now, with no further ado, do enjoy your stay here - I do hope you'll enjoy reading my work as I have writing it.

**CHAPTER 1**

**ADOPTION BY FIRE**

 

Squall Leonhart had always been the kind of person the fates liked to give things he did not ask for.

He never asked for a teacher with a crush on him, a perky girl with a crush on him, a company of friends loyal unto death to him, leadership over the most powerful independent military in the world, or the title as the hero who saved it from the void of time compression. Given the current political climate in the world, with his father-in-law all but having take over Galbadia and his father Esthar's president-for-life, even if he didn't have the entire SeeD military at his disposal he could have easily carved a fiefdom in his name out of the world. And maybe assumed a pretentious dynastic name to go with it: something like Lucis Caelum wouldn't sound too bad on his records.

In return, that which he asked for had this tendency to slip from his grasp. His sister-figure? Left without a trace until years later. His (initial) desire to be left alone to focus on his mission? Constantly disturbed by said teacher, then said perky girl. Realizing his feeling for the latter girl? Found her caught in a coma that lasted very nearly forever.

Thankfully, most of those tended to have ended well at the end of the day.

Not this time around.

Sitting in Dr. Kadowaki's clinic with his beloved, bitterness was welling from deep within the SeeD commander's heart. The doctor, his only salvation, seemed to have denied him hope of a happy ending this time.

“There are no mistakes, are there, Doctor?” he asked, his hands clasped.

“None whatsoever,” said Dr. Kadowaki. “I am sorry, Squall.”

“Can't we trust technology to do something – _anything_? I can get you in touch with the greatest brains Esthar has to offer!”

Dr. Kadowaki leveled her eyes at Squall. “You think I haven't done so myself? I have, and even they said no. Sorceresses are  _sterile_ by nature, they said, and even if  _their_ technology could do something about that, I doubt they'd be willing to give it a shot.”

No explaining was needed. Squall knew he was grasping at straws: Laguna must have been aware of their predicament, and if he could have done something about it as the big shot he would have. Hell, if there had been a one-in-million chance he'd have gladly given up his presidency; that was the kind of person his old man was.

Somehow the idea of admitting defeat in this particular thing was as bitter as, Squall reminisced, how the notion of death and being spoken of in the past tense struck his younger self three years before. Even bitterer, he thought, that between then and now he had triumphed over everything... except what Rinoa  _was_ .

Next to him, Rinoa sat, eyes fixed on the plethora of clinic equipment on the good doctor's table as if her salvation lay with it. She hadn't spoken a single word since they met Dr. Kadowaki that day, as if having resigned and accepted her lot.

Squall wouldn't – couldn't – make peace as easily as his wife could. “There must be something we can do.”

“I'm very sorry,” Dr. Kadowaki plainly said, in a matter-of-fact voice complete with a slow shake of her head. Squall suddenly felt a burning desire to subject her table to a  _Renzokuken_ volley. He managed to keep his hands well away from his Lion Heart's handle, but his murderously furrowing brows were enough to tell of how he felt about the whole mess.

In fact, it took Rinoa tapping him on the elbow – as lightly and playfully as was her wont – to bring him back to something resembling civility. “That's okay, Doctor,” she said. “I... well, it's been good to know what...” her voice trailed off and became diminished. “... my problem is.”

“All in a day's job,” said the doctor. “Rinoa, I... well, if it helps at all, I'd say adoption may be-”

“We'll think about it,” said Squall, drowning out the good doctor. Of course, what he was  _screaming_ deep inside was “to hell with that suggestion”. He would have let Dr. Kadowaki know of it, too, had he not been the SeeD commander and therefore responsible for keeping up a professional front at all times.

He would have hyperventilated – again in secret – too, if Rinoa had not presented an unfazed smile and the sweetest “thank you” he had heard in a day. Then she stood up, and pulled him out of his seat (and trance) with what could best be described as a grip of steel. How Rinoa became so strong was yet another mystery of her being a Sorceress.

“We'll never have children,” he finally said, punching the railing, vanquished as he was. “Imagine that.”

No matter how he looked at the predicament, it seemed like just karma for his throwing his lot with (and essentially fathering) a mercenary organization that had been recruiting orphans for years.

_Just payback, isn't it._

***

If one was to look at Rinoa Leonhart (nee Heartilly) those days, they would think she was the happiest woman in Terra, more so if they'd been watching the television. Those days, the Galbadian and Estharian media alike were putting excessive focus on one little city state called Timber and how it had finally regained independence – without violence, even. SeeD had been browbeating Galbadia to release Timber for more than two years now, ever since Ultimecia was defeated, but it was not until General Caraway became Consul of the State of Galbadia – basically president, without all the presidential bells and whistle – that they relented. 

Rinoa had spend a greater part of the last few days on the phone and at the drafting table. Zone and Watt had been telling her all manners of exciting things going on in the little city of theirs. Galbadian banners were out, Timberian ones in. Galbadian officials and administrators were passing their offices to Timberian nationals. The last Galbadian military unit, the 10 th Motorized Battalion, “tucked their tail behind them and scrammed” out of downtown Timber just yesterday.

_“And it's all thanks to you, Princess,”_ said both Zone and Watt, independently of each other. The way they sounded, Rinoa would have thought it was an epic military victory they'd just got. 

But wait, it got better – or worse, depending on perspective. If the special news reports were of any indication, they were not the only ones holding that flattering view of hers. The New Timber Congress' first debate was whether Rinoa deserved a statue or not. Last time she checked the TV, the votes were unanimous. Whether or not they would actually go on with the sculpting, Rinoa was looking at a future of being the face of the newly restored nation. It would have been so hilarious, had it not been so surreal. 

One of the upside of all the fame was that Rinoa would be busy with a range of political activities on behalf of the fledgling nation. Which was to say, not being useless. She had gotten fed up with having little in the way of things to do after finally getting engaged to Squall and moving into Balamb Garden as the Commander's wife. Perhaps Edea did have her reason for not staying in Garden during Cid's tenure, after all. That way, at the end of the day Squall and everyone else would still remember her as Matron Edea, rather than Edea the Headmaster's wife.

Rinoa lazily scrawled her signature across a sheet of document. She was going to deliver that speech before the New Timber Congress, and she didn't even  _write_ the thing.  _“Best speechwriter you can ask for who hasn't yet left town, Princess,”_ came the explanation. The whole business was so... political and therefore odd to her eyes. Odder than being unable to have children, at any rate, and only because she had accepted the latter. 

The former Sorceress leaned back against her chair, tapping on the table. It took them six months and too many tests of all kinds to count, but somehow she had vaguely imagined it would have ended up like it did even before they saw Dr. Kadowaki for the first appointment. As for how? She could no better explain her understanding than she could the whole deal about Time Compression. Just a hunch, as her better might have said.

It didn't matter, she told herself. She had already gotten too much out of her life. It was just fair offset, that she'd have to give up something precious for that which she was taking for granted.

She was more worried about Squall than herself, by all accounts. The bad news couldn't have chosen a worse timing to hit them. Reports of abnormal time-space disturbances littered Squall's working table and covered his side of their bed, and Squall seemed to be muttering his answer to countless communiques (mostly complaints) from the relatively few governments in the world in his sleep. Certainly Rinoa wouldn't tell him what he sleeptalked – it involved stuffing the mayor of Winhill's face into a freezer at one point – but the implication was clear.

The world was expecting a soldier to be a statesman and solver of problems  _in general_ . The same soldier who had frankly had enough and would want nothing more than retreating to a countryside cottage where nobody knew his name and raise his family in peace.

Except thanks to her, there would be no one to raise.

Funny, Rinoa felt strangely _empty_ about the whole “you'll never have children” deal. She wasn't going to feel guilty for something that was essentially not her fault. That was what the adventure with the rest of the gang had taught her. It was, to her knowledge, what _being a SeeD_ was all about: to make the best out of a poor situation and never lost sight of the grander cause.

Her grander cause is to spread happiness to everyone around her; not just Squall, but  _everyone_ . She wasn't going to be able to do that while feeling continually sorry for herself.

She was going to make this absolutely clear to Squall later in the day.

Now, however, her paperwork called. It had never been easy being a VIP. Nobody said it was. 

_Life is too short to spend fretting over inevitables._

***

The afternoon wind washed over Balamb Garden's famed quad. Now that the Garden was perched just over the Northern coast of Balamb, the place was absolutely flooded with the salty sea wind that might qualify as a miniature gale. No wonder the female Garden cadets had decided not to brace the place unless they were properly covered in  _trousers_ . Much to the chagrin of a certain young father wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat sitting at the bend rocking a baby trolley. 

Irvine Kinneas stole a peek at the baby in the crib. Little Cody Kinneas was unusually active for his age, and his hair-yanking was legendary in its destruction. Now and again he'd gather a bunch of Irvine's prized strands between his little fingers and give a tug that felt quite like a train horn being pulled. Selphie might have made it plenty clear the baby was accompanying her on the first cross-ocean train ever next week, but if Irvine could help it he'd like his boy be a bit more of an open-air person. (And maybe a gun person, but Quistis and Matron would have many a choice word with him if he'd ever pushed the issue).

Either way, both father and son would not object to the wind washing over their faces and ruffling their hair. The boy was giggling, his tiny feet kicking off his tiny blanket once every so often. Irvine felt like laughing, too: looking at the baby's hair, it was almost as if everything they'd fed hm went straight into his hair. Cody's wispy baby-hair might change as he grew, but already the proud father could see the boy running down the hall one day with a mass of brown hair fluttering in the wind, at the same time fluttering the delicate hearts of dreamy maidens.

Taking a deep breath and gathering his hair back in a bunch, Irvine stood up. “That's enough wind for the day, boyo. Time to get you back into  _cover_ .”

Cody might be unable to express his thoughts in words just yet, but the way his smile curved into a scowl and his kicking got more  _violent_ was enough to tell he didn't like being taken off his favorite wind-bath site. Irvine gave his little boy a nod, then took off with wind behind his heel.

The boy didn't need to know the real reason why they'd have to evacuate so suddenly. Squall and Rinoa were just about to have their stroll all over the quad, and Selphie had told him to  _not_ flaunt Cody in their faces. 

Even without such summary orders Irvine'd heard whispers. Mostly from his wife – how Selphie got the energy to take care of their baby AND fulfill her Instructor role AND follow all the latest gossips around Balamb (yes, Garden and town both) might be a mystery of the ages. Irvine suspected the rest of the gang knew, too, and decided it was not something Irvine should poke his nose into.

What he did know was that Squall and Rinoa had become glummer than usual. In fact, moments like those make Irvine nostalgic. It was as if they had been back to that good old fight-Galbadia-kill-Sorceress days, three years ago next Thursday. Irvine had always regarded those months fondly, the glory he would scarcely see again till the end of his life. Then again, he wouldn't oppose to being a SeeD, or be the center of attention of a host of impressionable teenagers looking for someone to hero-worship who wasn't Commander Squall Leonhart the Legendary – but that was neither here nor there.

He cleared his throat and pushed the tram along the corridor. Talking about nostalgia, there was bound to be plenty to go around next week. The little reestablished state of Timber was to hold its 'independence ceremony' next Thursday – also the third anniversary of Ultimecia's defeat. Rinoa, regarded basically as the mother of the new nation, had a speech lined up on that occasion, too. Whoever thought this was a idea must have had symbolism in mind, which meant not Rinoa. The young woman had not a political bone in her body, and they loved her all the more for it. 

What this also meant was a small number of SeeDs were to be dispatched to the event. Which meant free family vacation for all. No doubt Selphie would rope the son into the train model in Hotel Timber. There was no escaping growing up as a train fanatic, not when Selphie was the mother. 

_Not that there is anything wrong with trains._

***

Trains. 

Quistis couldn't say she approved of the thing, having personally had a number of not-so-good experience with it. Not when they had other means of intercontinental travel, like the Ragnarok (she supported using it as the Garden equivalent of Air Force One: a symbol of status and power of  _the_ most powerful non-state actor in the world). Then again, it didn't take a genius politician to tell, bringing an orbital warship to what is essentially a cordial ceremony wasn't going to be the pinnacle of good statecraft.

Selphie's family was happy enough: last time Quistis checked, the Kinneases were perched next to the window, taking turn holding little Cody and showing him the marvels of modern rail technology. If the baby's random clapping was of any indication, he liked what he saw. That panorama was Selphie's answer to the billion-gil question “To be a SeeD or to have a happy family”:  _why not both?_ Quistis would feel happy for her, if not for that troublesome pang of jealousy deep within her.

There she stood, in the SeeD Commander's car. There Squall sat, behind the table, his fist propping his chin. Squall still exuded an air of authority and leadership wherever he went, even though Quistis would know more than anyone else (except maybe Rinoa) how much was on his plate recently – the dark bags underneath his eyes betrayed his fatigue if nothing else. The room was quiet but for the wheels grinding on rails underneath and the occasional quiet swallow from Squall's general direction as he pored over a report. 

_Her_ report. 

“Twenty sightings. Ten incidents of unidentified materials. Five cases of biological traces. All within three days” said Squall, finally lifting his tired eyes off the pages. “The situation isn't improving itself.”

“Unfortunately, sir,” said Quistis, shaking her head. “But we aren't seeing anything  _too_ worrying yet.” She paused, considering a joke to lighten the mood. “At least there haven't been time-compressed monstrosities appearing in downtown Caraway City.” 

“Not  _yet_ ,” Squall corrected. Even if he understood the joke, he probably didn't appreciate it. “I've been there, Quistis. We have all been there. Temporal anomalies are no joking matter, Ultimecia or no. They can be as benign and as destructive as they well please. And-”

Squall's voice trailed off, and Quistis found herself saying the exact word that came out of his lips. “Never mind.”

Squall eyed Quistis with a glare. “You never change, do you?”

“No, sir.” came the answer, as insincere as Quistis could manage. Part of Quistis couldn't help teasing Squall whenever she found the chance. The other, well, she knew what he was going to say.

_The rest of the world is eying Garden. Have been doing that ever since Ultimecia was defeated. There has never been anything quite like us before or since. An army without an enemy to fight, a bow without wild beasts to hunt. What then? Would we turn our arms against those who do not deserve it? Is it our job to make sure everything is right with the world? Or are we just there to exist and look after our own?_

“Quistis,” said Squall, and Quistis would have thought him jovial if he hadn't been fixing her with those completely-serious-business eyes of his. “How much are you willing to bet one of its kind would pop up tonight?”

“My next paycheck,” Quistis said, not needing much to think.

Squall quietly nodded. “Apparently Consul Caraway thinks the same. He's rolling in armored anti-air batteries to guard the ceremony. Imagine that. Armored AA batteries. If not for my words the Timberians would think it is another invasion again.”

Quistis was about to make a comment when she saw Squall clutching his forehead again. “Doesn't matter. Hope for the best, but keep your eyes open. I want to see the situation under _complete_ control until the ceremony is over.”

“Sir,” said Quistis, and saluted. Then she turned around, and was just about to leave the room when she suddenly stopped.

“May I have another question, Commander?” she about-faced and asked.

“Shoot.” Squall didn't even look up.

Quistis gathered all her courage into a harrumph, and switched to a less formal tone of voice. “Squall...” she hesitated a little. It was a delicate question, after all. “Is it true that Ri-”

She received the iciest glare Squall had given her in months. “It really is _none_ of your business. No offense meant.”

“I... see,” Quistis answered meekly. Part of Squall had changed dramatically over the last four years, true. His core, however, wasn't going away any time soon, especially when it came to inquiries about his personal life.

“I just... I just want you to know, Squall, we're all here if you – or Rinoa – needs any-”

“I will let you know,” Squall said, and made an 'off-you-trot' hand gesture. It was better than his 'whatever', that was for sure.

“I see,” said Quistis, and marched out of the room for good this time.

_Yes, he has not changed at all._

***

“... Let us raise our glasses! To the freedom of the State and People of Timber and the peace of the world!”

Watching from the sideline, Squall had to admit, pompous and self-important as the speech was, it didn't seem all that bad spoken by Rinoa. She was Julia Heartilly's daughter for a reason: her voice made the empty pleasantries of politic-speak sound like a song. For all he knew, the applause in the audience might very well be genuine. The woman clad in white satin standing at the stage might be many things, and an unintentionally inspirational speaker had to be one of them.

His eyes darted towards the row of guests-of-honor: Consul-General Caraway was nodding profusely, and knowing the man that was more approval than any other speaker could ever get from him. “ _That's my girl,”_ Squall could imagine the man speaking to himself. _And my wife_ , Squall added with no small pride in his inner voice.

As Rinoa stepped from the dais, she tilted her head very slightly towards the wing. Squall's vision registered another of her playful winks. _“Did I do well?”_ it said, to which Squall was tempted to exclaim “Perfect”. For obvious reasons, he kept his lips sealed.

For just one moment, Squall's worries vanished – all of it. The weight of his responsibility. The pestering foreign dignitaries. The time-space rifts opening and closing at random. And of course, the fact that they would never have children. _Rinoa is happy where she is_ , thought Squall. _And it is all that matters._

Then the stage light and music roared to life. The master of ceremony, dressed in stiff suits and ties, walked like a robot up the stage.

“And now,” he shouted into the microphone, “Let the program continue! To commemorate this very special day, let us welcome the joint Dollet-Timber Performance Arts Troupe to the stage! May I have one round of applaud for _The Prince and the Chocobros!_ ”

Squall's lips curved into a rare smile as the four artists walked on stage with exaggerated gaits, covered from top to toe in bright yellow with streaks of black. Over-choreographed dancing and ridiculous lyrics aside (Seriously? _I wanna ride my chocobo all day_?), the _Chocobros_ know what they were doing as far as pop-ballad music was concerned. If he had been six years younger and not had the likes of SeeD for baggage, he might as well have been a fan.

And then... it happened.

_“Commander! Commander! Unidentified flying object approaching, ten o'clock!”_

_***_

Rubeus Hagrid was a grieving half-giant that day.

He could not say he did not see Lily and James Potter's death coming. Everyone could – they were among the most stalwart enemies of Vold- _You-Know-Who –_ who wasn't Albus Dumbledore. True enough, _You-Know-Who_ was no more, for whatever reason. Neither Professor Dumbledore nor Hagrid could find solace in their triumph. They were prepared for the worst, and so was he, but death and sacrifices being what they were...

If there was something – anything – that they could be remotely _happy_ (codswallop, Hagrid thought) about, it was that the young Harry Potter was alive and well. In fact, just as Hagrid was riding (which was to say, flying a motorbike) through Bristol, the little tyke was twisting and turning in the half-giant's lap, alive and hopeful.

Hagrid breathed in a gigantic lung full of cold sky air. He found his head swaying from side to side in disapproval as Professor Dumbledore's words echoed between his ears. It was for his own safety, the Professor said. Best course of action in a sea of poor choices, the Professor said. Harry Potter was to stay with his aunt and uncle, those same people who had disowned Lily (she said so at least once). Professor Dumbledore himself seemed to have little hope in the Dursleys, and Hagrid needed not guess why.

Still, Hagrid couldn't help but wonder, were they really doing the right thing?

Perhaps he should not have thought so, and for a very good reason. He wasn't looking where he was going, and before he knew it he was engulfed by _something_. A screen of sticky blackness washed over him for just a fraction of a second, and then it was gone.

Hagrid would not know it yet, but the damage was already done. A bitter chill and an odd feeling in the guts later, Hagrid found himself driving through a sky like any other... except that the giant and the boy were nowhere near Bristol any more. Or Great Britain, for that matter. It was only when he started seeing dynamic searchlight flaring into the sky that he realized something was not right.

Within five seconds, “something was not right” turned into a string of expletives too foul for the ears of a one-year old. Everyone would have Hagrid's outburst if put in his shoes. The searchlights had found him, and now Hagrid was forced to drive with his right hand, his left desperately covering his eyes.

The first thing to come to his mind, naturally, was _You-Know-Who_. The thought – and all the fear and anger that came with it, caused Hagrid's jaws to snap shut. The light were on him for a full minute as he tried to escape from its reach to no avail. All that it did was make Hagrid's beady eyes more used to the light. The giant raced to defend himself: his left hand moved from his eyes, and reached for the umbrella-wand behind his back.

Little did Hagrid know his lack of Muggle devices on hand was his downfall: had he only got some semblance of a radio on his person, Hagrid would have heard a strange voice calling himself _Commander Squall Leonhart of Garden_ , announcing that he had _entered a restricted area_ , and requesting him to _identify himself_ and follow his instruction to land, three times in a row. Hagrid did none of those things.

Then, all of a sudden, Hagrid's eyes caught three flares shot from below. Had Hagrid been more sober and calm, he would have realized they were warning shots, aimed at his general direction, but obviously fired at such angles so as not to hit him. Hagrid did not realize this, and jumped to the obvious conclusion. He squinted his eyes, biting his lips as the engine roared underneath him. A mutter of magic word later, the end of his umbrella flared to life. A bolt of fire left the tip and raced towards the blackness below – where Hagrid thought the shot came from, anyway.

What he did not expect to see was his flame, not meant to be anything close to Fiendfyre, suddenly blossomed into an extraordinary fireball visible five hundred feet in the sky. Hagrid couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself as he twisted the motorcycle's throttle.

***

“Damage report! Damage report!”

The blaring sirens and the shout drowned out Squall's hoarse cries. At once Squall did not know what to think: to curse the enemy above – because it must be an enemy to not answer to his very standard military hailing procedure – or the fragility of Galbadian hardware.

As it happened, the unidentified flying object's flaming projectile, probably no stronger than a regular Fire that any Garden cadet could perform, hit a Galbadian munitions truck squarely in the fuel tank. The odds were so astronomical, the happenstance so ridiculous to be almost hilarious – if not for the death that had inevitably happened. Or will happen: the event's audience were beginning to panic.

“Squall! Squall!” Zell's voice blurred by his ears through the walkie-talkie. “T-the c-crowd!”

The screams echoing from the stage made Squall's chest contract. _A stampede_. Squall felt like kicking himself. He had gone through an evacuation plan at least twice, 'just in case', but given the gravity of the current situation it was nowhere near sufficient.

“Try to keep it under control, damn it!” cried Squall. “We have a plan, stick to it! Guide the civilians out of here, out, out, out!”

Three years ago, Squall would have rushed out to look for Rinoa in the mess. Today he couldn't: not with the high-profile attendance they had got with them, or the delicate status of SeeD and Gardens. Up into the stage he jumped, grabbing an electric baton as he did so.

“Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen!” he cried. “May I have your attention please? This is Commander Squall Leonhart of Garden speaking!”

The difference between a renowned war hero and a less-known master of ceremony – the poor man was now cowering behind the dais – was evident in a matter of seconds. A quick scan below revealed a kind of fright typical of people who had never seen battle before suddenly thrust into a life-and-death situation. At least, they had calmed down, but Squall was certain all it would take for all hell to break loose was for him to say the wrong thing.

“May I apologize for the turbulence,” he said calmly, even though his palms were sweating. “We have encountered some... technical difficulties, and would like to request your cooperation. Rest assured that everything – absolutely everything – is under control!”

Once again, Squall's stone face saved him and maybe many more lives. With a commanding yet cordial voice, he then directed the crowd towards the exit: sure enough, there were enough Galbadian soldiers and SeeD cadets on standby just reserved for a situation like this.

Squall did not know when it started, or who actually pulled the trigger first. Before he knew it, the sky was lit up. The Galbadian anti-air batteries roared to life and did what they do best: saturating the skies with a hail of standard-issue 20mm AA autocannon rounds.

Even as Squall raced to expedite the evacuation, the corner of his eyes caught something in the sky exploding. A trail of fire, like a comet, slashed downwards, like an amber brushstroke against the starry sky. He didn't need to look further to know what that meant. _Good riddance_. In fact, he might have kept that spark in the sky down in his book as yet another enemy down, had Rinoa not been right there.

Yes, Rinoa. She rushed up on stage, her lithe silk-clad body gliding and slipping between the evacuating torrent. “Squall!” she cried, and grabbed him by the hands. There was a look of great horror in her eyes, one Squall had not seen ever since they saved her from Adel's (literal) clutches. Her teeth were gnashing: she looked like she was going to slap him across the face had she not realized they were still in the middle of a public panic.

“Squall! W-who ordered the guns to-” she exclaimed between her breaths.

“Huh?” Squall stared back.

“Who ordered the guns to open fire?” Rinoa asked again, her hands trembling.

“Must be standard operating procedures,” Squall answered. He was hiding his confusion quite well: deep inside he was just about to go nuts from Rinoa's sudden outburst. “Why are you asking? Shouldn't you be getting to safety?”

Rinoa ignored Squall's admittedly very sensible question. She stared him in the eyes.

Squall couldn't believe his ears.

“Your... my father's... our... our men are... are shooting at a baby!”

***

Hagrid was triumphant for all of ten seconds. He had just finished casting a spell on the bike to speed it up when it begun.

Then they came: the distinct sound of heavy guns opening fire.

Over the span of five seconds Hagrid had taken enough bullets to fell a Common Welsh Green Dragon, and so did Sirius' bike under him.

At some point in his life at Hogwarts, Hagrid must have contemplated how it would have felt to have one's torso reduced to the consistency of a broken sieve. Or whether a half-giant like himself, so thick and strong, would fare falling off a Cleansweep five hundred feet above the ground. Or, in those early days of Muggle Studies as a subject, what would have happened to a Muggle whose bike exploded underneath him.

Those thoughts, and more, were worming their way into Hagrid's mind, along with so many other memories throughout his life of fifty years, overriding the pain spreading all over his body. He was conscious enough – no, he _had_ to be conscious. He had never mastered shield charms, and never thought he would have needed them.

Now every ounce of strength he had left was forced into what he thought was the strongest shield he could project. It wrapped over the sleeping Harry Potter, so blissfully dozing as bullets in the thousand whizzed by.

Hagrid could no longer feel when he hit the ground. The gunfire had stopped. The shield charm was holding. Harry Potter was alive and sleeping peacefully atop his mangled body. And Hagrid could hear the call of death.

***

“Take over for me,” was all that Rinoa could hear coming from Squall's trembling lips even as she pulled him into her father's car. She couldn't hear Irvine over her own shouting, but she was sure she saw the cowboy nod.

The rebuilt Timber was not too large, and hardly two minutes had passed when the car rushed through the city's gate. Rinoa paid the Galbadian soldiers no mind, and they automatically kept out of her way: it was the _Consul-General_ 's car, after all. It was then that Rinoa saw a thin strand of smoke trailing into the sky, a telltale sign of death and destruction if she knew one. She squeezed the gas pedal hard: the look on Squall's face as he was pressed into the seat would have been priceless had they not have an emergency on hand.

In what seemed like an hour Rinoa found herself at a patch of flat grass surrounded by Galbadian military personnels, frozen like statues except for a few trying to snap a photo or two. The small crowd parted the moment Rinoa appeared: standing in attention and saluting her as she dragged Squall behind her.

“Status report,” said Squall, snarling at the nearest Galbadian soldier. “What _exactly_ happened here?”

“A... a flying motorbike, Commander Leonhart, sir!” stammered the blue-clad Galbadian infantryman. “T-there was a gi-gi-giant, too, and we-”

Rinoa felt like her insides were on fire. “And the baby?” she cried. “Did you see any baby in the-”

“M-my apologies, m'lady!” cried the soldier, having apparently fallen into oh-goddess-please-don't-dock-my-pay mode. “We- we haven't dare- haven't tried looking! We will-”

“Fine, fine, fine!” Rinoa exclaimed impatiently. “Then for the love of Hyne please keep your voices down!”

The sight before Rinoa was one of terrible brutality. On the ground lay a giant – the soldiers were not lying about this. They did not, however, realize said giant, five times broader and twice taller than an average man and looking like a wild berserker as he was, had been perforated by machinegun fire. Rinoa felt like turning away: the state of his body, missing so many chunks and splattered with so much blood, was among the worst things she had seen so close to her. She tried to suppress the horror welling deep within her: she was certain, _certain_ , she had heard the voice of a child calling for his mother when the bullets roared. Now there was next to nothing.

Rinoa tried to draw power to her arm, then silently cursed herself: She had forgotten to junction her Guardian Force and magic on the day she needed them most. Frantic, her eyes darted back to Squall.

“Squall, curative magic, please! Anything!” Then she turned towards the soldier company. “Someone get me an ambulance!”

And then, just as Squall began casting his stock of curative magic, Rinoa noticed a rather large bundle the giant had been holding close to his chest, strangely pristine and untouched by bullets...

***

Magic filled the many gaping holes on Hagrid's torso... and did close to nothing. If it did, Hagrid didn't feel it. He was barely aware there were people around him, more than any congregation he had been to before. Nor did he hear the noises about him.

Then a face emerged into his sight. His blurred vision could no longer make out the details, but the contours... the features, they were so familiar to his face; yet so strange and otherworldly at the same time. In fact, he would have thought he was seeing Lily Potter again, had he not realized the woman's hair was dark brown, not dark red.

But then something about her made the dying Hagrid feel at ease. There were things about a person, after all, that didn't need Legilimiency to shed lights into.

“The lad...”

Hagrid used his last ounces of strength to reveal a large bundle of blankets he had been holding on to. The last vestiges of the shield charm fizzled away as the blankets unfurled. Inside, a sleeping one-year-old boy lay, hair a little ruffled and sporting a crooked lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead, but otherwise perfectly healthy.

“... great things...”

The woman scooped the boy from the blanket and held him close. Hagrid could not tell why, but the image he saw was just... right, somehow. “Does he... does he have a name?” asked the woman.

“'Arry... Pot... ter...”

“Harry? Harry Potter? That... is his name?”

Hagrid's head nodded once, his eyes were wide open, as if staring at the sky. The Boy Who Lived had survived in good hands. All was right with the world.

Then he fell silent.

So perished Rubeus Hagrid, Keepers of Keys at Hogwarts, confidant and loyal man of Professor Albus Dumbledore, lover of all manners of beasts magical and mundane alike, as stalwart an enemy of the Dark as the bravest of the Order of Phoenix, and the first of Wizarding Britain to be killed by the Terran Galbadian army.

Those who killed him, accident or no, would never know of all this. By Commander Squall Leonhart's order, the giant would be secretly buried in the Trabian graveyard, where lay the students of the local Garden killed by the Galbadian missile attack years before. There would be neither engraving nor spell on his gravestone, except for Squall's complimentary _“Here lies a noble soldier”_ , nor would there be much in the way of visitors. But that would be a story for another day.

That night, all that Squall and Rinoa Leonhart knew was that Hyne had seen it fit to grant them a child.

And so for once, Squall got _exactly_ what he asked for, and all was well.

***


	2. Birthday and Magic

  **CHAPTER TWO**

**BIRTHDAY AND MAGIC**

 

Nearly eight years had passed since Rubeus Hagrid (whose name remained unknown to the citizens of Terra) died to Galbadian gunfire, and Harry Potter became known as Harry Leonhart. And so The Boy Who Lived became The Boy Who Lived (Twice). It was, however neither the circumstance of his arrival nor his miraculous survival that made him famous.

It was his parents.

In fact, he was possibly _more_ famous on Terra than he would have been in Wizarding Britain. One look in his superficially meager room would reveal a small album his parents had been keeping ever since he could walk. There he was, dressed in either miniature suits or SeeD uniforms with tassels attached to the shoulderpieces, standing next to the Commander of Garden or the Lady of Timber in important receptions, his little hand raising in imitation of his father's salutes. Occasionally the President of Esthar would join in, too: His Gramps Laguna, who, from the first time they met, Harry had decided would be coolest person he could ever have in his life second only to his father.

Harry could only vaguely remember some of those flashier moments; though he could definitely recall the pompous pot-bellied officials in suits, or the generals wearing beards and mustaches and a grim expression, or how the noisy atmosphere of gossip would segue into a nice, calm waltz. To this day Harry had never been a fan of the sort of commotion, and neither was his father.  _“But you'll have to deal with them one day,”_ said his father. Yet another reason for Harry to dread growing up. Though growing up meant he could take the famous SeeD exam, and that alone made it perfectly fine.

Harry paced around his domain, wearing an impatient expression on his face. His standard-issue hundred-square-feet dormitory room suddenly seemed so small and stuffy. Once every so often he'd rapped on the table to the rhythm of the elevator music the Garden radio was fond of broadcasting.

_Not leave the room, they said. Still preparing, they said. Well it's been three hours!_

Harry had never been big on waiting. Being the son of a consummate military man meant little time for pointless idling throughout his childhood; not when his father had a say in it anyway (which, fortunately, wasn't  _always_ ). The kind of exercise he'd got explained how for his age, Harry was a tall boy. His arms had started to develop muscles, though his frame was slender and he liked it that way. A neat, metal-rimmed pair of glasses were nestled atop the bridge of his nose – those, together with a book titled  _Wild Roses and Returners – How To Rebel Against An Evil Empire_ , were among the birthday presents he'd got the other year from Aunt Quistis. 

Harry sighed for the hundredth time. Now he sat back on his black leather chair, looking down at the miniature Garden cadet uniform he was wearing. Perhaps he could be proud he was one of the few remaining owners of this plain yet very serviceable kind of garment. Ever since father – sorry,  _Commander Squall Leonhart_ as he was supposed to address him in public – lifted the minimum Garden admission age to fourteen just three years ago, the “kiddie uniform” had become something of a collector's rarity.

All the better, Harry had always thought. After all, he  _liked_ looking all military and no-nonsense. As far as his hair wasn't in question, anyway. His mass of hair, brown and messy and so  _un-military_ , only made him look  _more_ like his father – neither father nor son particularly liked haircuts. To say nothing about the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead he'd thumb once every so often. 

Like all inquisitive children he'd asked his parents where or how he got it. Strangely, they didn't happen to know.  _Curious_ , Harry had always thought, since his father knew basically everything else the boy could have bothered to ask, from how to reliably win Triple Triad with a starter pack to how a machinegun worked (though his mother did give him a few choice words that night on how Harry was too young to even think about weapons. Never mind that his buddy Cody had been toting around his BB gun since he was six, and Aunt Selphie never batted an eyelid). 

Harry shot a sideway glance at the clock on the wall. Three hours and ten minutes, and sixteen seconds. Seventeen. Eighteen. The second hand looked like some malicious trickster had cast Slow on it. Well, if whatever malevolent force of the universe thought they could make Harry break his word and leave his room without prompt, they had another thing coming.

Harry would never do that, for he was his father's son.  _Respect the chain of command. Keep your promises. Uphold your honor, and that of Garden_ . Harry repeated to himself as he resumed the pacing.

It was not until another half an hour had passed that Harry heard a soft rapping on his door, followed by a very loud banging that sounded suspiciously like a pint-sized battering ram intent on knocking the door all down.

“Here, here,” said Harry, making every effort to sound stern and not extremely glad (as he was really feeling).

He turned the knob and wrenched the door open. He might as well have kept his eyes closed: the two figures standing outside was  _exactly_ as he imagined. On the left was a boy who looked quite like a girl, and on the right a girl who could well pass for a boy. 

Cody Kinneas could certainly use a lot more protein in his diet, being slender and tall like a stick, with a mass of light brown hair hanging to his shoulder that his father thought looked good on him and his mother seemed to agree. He used to be even more girly a year ago, having gained more weight plus a kid-sized cowboy hat in between. His BB gun was slung over his shoulder, looking a little worse for the wear. It was Cody's only possession he was unwilling to let  _anyone_ touch, Harry included. Last time Harry checked, it had got a name, too: “Exeter Jr.” - though he didn't know if it was the father or the son that came up with it. Or both.

Meanwhile, Arlene Dincht, as blonde as blonde went, was a rightly pint-sized menace with a sporting a characteristically short bob-cut. Harry had a really funny “relationship” with the girl, as each was the other's favorite punching bag during training since they first learned to speak. Lest her petite form fool anyone, Harry had known better than stay put whenever she'd wind up for a hook. The last time he was slow on his feet, he'd had his glasses smashed beyond recognition. Then again, the last time  _she_ was too slow on her feet Arlene fell into a bush by way of a Harry-trademarked leg swipe, too. Neither were apologetic and therefore were the best of friends. 

Harry made a shocked face and stared at the door. He could swear there was a dent that wasn't there before. “Wait till my father hear of this,” he said. “Repair bill's going straight to your mom, Arle.”

Arlene tucked her gloved hands behind her (and Harry knew she was wearing them: he'd never seen her take off those fingerless gauntlets before, no reason to start doing it  _now_ ), pouted and stuck out her tongue. Cody made an indignant face. 

“Hey, hey, you leave the lady alone,” he said, patting on his gun's stock. “We know who did that, don't we, Exeter Jr.?”

“I knew it.” Harry nodded sagaciously. He just had that hunch maybe, just maybe, Uncle Irvine  _shouldn't_ have taught the kid how to hit things really hard with a rifle stock just yet. 

Taking a deep breath to suppress the typical nine-year-old's excitement within him, Harry harrumphed. “So, what's the surprise?”

Arlene must have taken the statement as a free pass to grab Harry's hand and gave him a pull. A normal kind might have been floored right then and there, but Harry was prepared and held his ground. “Come with us!” exclaimed the girl.

A grunting sound left Harry's throat. But as he was hauled off, his lips curved into a happy smile. It didn't fade as Harry's feet glided along the marble-tiled corridors of Balamb Garden, leading him into the facility's circular concourse surprisingly empty of students and cadets. The trio flew down a sun-glazed flight of stairs, underneath two very large trees that had been around for as long as Harry knew, and finally halted around a large bench.

Harry could feel the sea breeze caressing his face and filling his lungs. His smile turned into a broad grin. The famous quad of Balamb Garden tended to do that to people, to say nothing of the scene in front of him.

A cake, a (slightly off-center) banner that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY”, two plates of Balamb-style sweets and snacks, and two rather large parcels with ribbons clumsily attached. It wasn't really Harry's birthday, but rather the day he was found off the flying motorcycle's wreck from the giant's lap, though he did not know this. What he  _did_ know was, for the second year in a row, he had actually forgotten his own B-day, and that had to account for something.

Then the two party organizers simultaneously broke into the Happy Birthday song. Harry's grin enlarged, until he was sure the edge of his mouth had reached his ears. The only thing missing was the candles – for good reasons: who in their right mind would try to light candle in this kind of place?

“Wow,” Harry clapped loudly. “Whose idea was this?”

“Mine,” Cody said, hands at his hips and puffing his chest. Which was about right, Harry thought: Aunt Selphie was the party animal in his father's circle, and Uncle Irvine had made very little effort to stop Cody from taking after her.

“And I wrapped the presents! And made the banner!” Arlene exclaimed. And then she looked at her own handiwork again, and her smile dimmed. “Well, uh... it's hard to cut and paste things with a pair of gloves-”

“Told you,” Cody tutted, shaking his head. “You could always take them off, they aren't going to walk out on you!”

“Says him who goes to sleep with his  _gun_ !” said Arlene. 

“Least I know when to take it off,” said Cody.

“Oh yeah?” Arlene's voice was raised a little. Something in Cody's voice struck a nerve, and Harry knew  _exactly_ what it was.

“Guys, guys,” Harry said, patting his two friends on the shoulders. “Arle, that's perfectly  _fine_ . I appreciated the effort, y'know?”

It had been months since their parents – Uncle Irvine, Aunt Selphie, Uncle Zell and Aunt Sonia – was last in Garden. Arlene's dad had been absent the longest: she had not even  _heard_ from him for half a year now. Top secret mission, as Harry'd eavesdropped, that involved one manner of underwater facility or another. No wonder she was as attached to those gloves as she was.

Such was the life for their lot: One of the first words young Harry learnt to speak was “SeeD”, and it didn't take long for him to understand what it meant. The world knew only the fame and prestige of SeeD as the best of the best, and that their job involved traveling all over the world fulfilling awesome missions.

That also meant their children were, for the most part, left to fend for themselves for a large chunk of the year. And, seeing how many enemies Garden seemed to attract (Harry's mother had never told him in certain terms, but he prided himself in his smarts), the best place for the family of established SeeD members to stay was Garden itself. Garden was no orphanage – if it had used to be, Harry's dad had ensured it no longer was – but for a large chunk of the year it felt quite like one: groups of little kids roaming free in the hallway, with preciously few adults around to ensure they didn't get into trouble. 

Harry saw his two friends shrug. “It's already too awesome, this party, I mean.” he said. “Any more perfect and the universe might decide to spontaneously divide by zero or something.”

“Hum, you heard the gentleman,” said Arlene. Cody simply smiled it off.

Meanwhile, Harry had reached for the package on the right. “May I?” He was greeted with repeated nods from both sides.

Inside both parcels were, predictably, the bric-a-brac treasured by free-range children and nobody but. A wooden training sword, worn and scratched and probably nicked from the practice room. A toy train, basically the only sort of plaything Cody knew well. Half a dozen animals (clumsily) folded from colored manila paper. A couple of Triple Triad cards stuffed into a plastic sealable pack – Buel, Bite Bug, Caterchipillar... the same old stuff everyone had got half a dozen of.

Perhaps the only brand-new thing was a Gilgamesh action figure, complete with toy Excalibur and Excalipoor (know the difference, they always said). Cody nodded with pride in his eyes. “Mine,” he must have been dying to say, but decided at the last minute not to. By SeeD standards, the Kinneases had always been quite well off. The Dinchts, not so much.

“Make a wish, Harry!” cried Arlene, jumping up and down.

“I wish...” Harry's voice trailed off a little, before resuming its course. “I wish we'll be friends forever!”

His two friends burst out into applause, while Harry just smiled. His fondest birthday wish, of course, he kept to himself.

_I wish I will be as great a SeeD as my father, Squall Leonhart, is_ .  _So I can fight alongside him._

***

Out of the whole of Balamb Garden, the only place Harry's marauders liked more than the windy quad was the second-floor balcony at the end of the circular corridor where the classrooms were. It was rather spacious as far as balconies were concerned, and none of the kids complained about the various junks piling up behind the doors. Years of accumulation had resulted in a dangerous-looking mess of wires, metal bits, broken furniture and other assortments just standing there. Aunt Quistis' cleanup efforts never helped much: the place was like a magical plate enchanted to keep filling up with sandwiches, except instead of sandwiches, you had broken, heavy and sharp materiel whose best use was probably to be melted down and recast into more palatable forms.

Still, Harry, Cody and Arlene knew that the view on top of the highest crate was one to die for. Sunset was pure bliss, perched on top of the rickety tower of crates, peering into the horizon while keeping a delicate balancing act.

For Harry's trio, the place was even more important.

“See Mr. Big Red anywhere, Harry?” exclaimed Arlene.

“No, but there are a few boats,” Harry said, leaning against the back wall and narrowing his eyes. “Fishing boats,” he finally said, shaking his head a little.

“Fishing boats,” repeated Cody breathlessly as he scrambled up the second highest crate. “Again.”

Somehow the fellow was far less capable of climbing high places than Harry was, despite having spent way more time doing that sort of thing. Harry had gotten to the top without a hitch, for comparison. If Harry had a Gil every time he helped Cody up, he could have accumulated enough to buy a BB gun equally as impressive as the longhaired blond's.

Out of all the places in Balamb Garden they had access to, here alone would they get a clear view of the skies above and around Garden. That way no matter how their parents would come home – by car, speedboat, helicopter, plane or even “Mr. Big Red” (the name they gave to the spaceship Ragnarok) – they would catch them. Speaking of the Big Red, Harry had a suspicion that they only let him be the unspoken leader because he was the only of the SeeDs' children to actually get to ride around in that thing, and often.

It might not be that comfortable sitting on a ten-foot-high surface that might topple over any time, but to the kids it had become something of a superstition. As the local urban legends had it, a girl, daughter of a lesser-ranked SeeD, used to do the same thing they were doing now: watching the horizon waiting for her father to come back. One day she couldn't do so, for whatever reason. The next day, the news came in that her father was killed by a stray T-Rexaur on the Island Closest To Hell, and they never found the body. There needed be no more horror story to force kids to religiously attend to the place like a consecrated site than the fear that their parents might  _never come back_ should they fail to do so.

Those days, however, it was mostly the three of them who were so keen. Their parents had the most dangerous of missions – though they never told the kids outright, the grim tone they'd speak in every time they left Garden would have made the message amply clear. Not even being told outright that it was  _dangerous_ for little kids to visit such a place could stop them. 

For half an hour the boys and girl sat there, eyes glued to the horizon. The great metal door was closed shut behind them, and they'd preferred it that way – no interruption from older Garden cadets, or worse, Instructors. It was their own peaceful realm: a bit too peaceful, though. The coast of Balamb was a boring place at the best of times, and every stir at the horizon would be greeted with ohs and ahs, only to die down when they'd realize it was invariably a seagull, a yatch, or a trick of the light.

Finally, Cody was the one to break the silence.

“Dude,” he tugged at Harry's sleeve. “So, uh... when are you leaving for Timber again?”

“Not sure,” Harry answered truthfully, for there was nothing to hide. “Mom said it's getting dangerous over there. Then again, she said the same thing last year, but I got to go at the end of the day, so I guess it's fifty-fifty.” He exhaled. “You?”

Cody shrugged. “Galbadia Garden restructuring on one side and Trabian Garden reopening on the other.”

The two boys shot each other understanding look, and tried not to look at Arlene who was suddenly finding the horizon incredibly mesmerizing.

“Which way is Southwest again?” she blurted, eyes still fixed on the indistinct shapes out there.

Cody narrowed his eyes and scratched his scalp, a silly look of confusion on his face. “Uh... there?” he pointed at a random direction. “No, no, no, there!” And another one.

Harry had to summon all his strength not to laugh at his buddy's expense. Cody might take after his father as far as hitting the mark from fifty paces with a BB gun, but his sense of direction would make a broken compass look like an established explorer of new worlds.

Arlene was nonplussed and so was Cody. “Look, I'm sure you asked me this yesterday. And the day before yesterday. And the day before that.”

Arlene stared at Cody as if she was about to utter some pretty harsh words. Fortunately, she didn't get the chance to.  _Unfortunately_ , she didn't get the chance to. 

Before the three children knew what happened, the whole of Garden rumbled. Harry felt like kicking himself for forgetting: the standard operation procedure over the last few weeks was that every three days at dusk Balamb Garden would rotate by a few degrees to keep the engine from locking. They must have missed the public service announcement, no thanks to closing the door shut.

Next thing he knew, he was flung off the box and off the balcony. Cody tried to hold on to him, and also got flung over the edge for his effort. Now the two boys were dangling precariously outside of the balcony railing.

Underneath them was a hundred-feet drop.

Arlene screamed. Cody looked like he would, if he hadn't been too busy hanging on to dear life. And Harry? Had the railings been a little smaller for his nine-year-old palm, he might have been able to vault over. It wasn't, so he couldn't. Then there was Cody, too: Harry could hold himself there for a while, but not if he had to take over for Cody – which, looking at his color, seemed to be something he would  _have_ to do, otherwise-

“H-hold on!” cried the girl. “I'll- I'll pull you guys up!”

“Arle! Go call someone, quick!” Harry shouted.

Cody gave Harry a desperate have-you-gone-out-of-your-mind stare. Harry tried to ignore him. “Go, Arle! Quick!” he screamed.

No sooner had the door closed behind Arle again that Harry saw Cody looking like he was going to faint. “Don't look down!” he exclaimed. “Drop your gun! It's weighing you down!”

Some color crept back into Cody's face. “N-not in this life!” he shouted back. Even as his finger was fighting a losing battle against gravity.

And then Cody lost.

If not for Harry's left hand swinging out, the lanky blond would have tumbled down a height fatal even to grown men. That, unfortunately, left Harry's right hand to bear the fourteen stones' weight of the two boys and the gun.

_No..._

Thoughts of all sorts ran through Harry's mind as he felt both his hands slipping.

_I must survive..._

Images – were they memories or his imagination? Of a bright green light filled his retina. Followed by a soothing warmth, like his mother was holding him again.

_Must... survive... must... get... up... there..._

Harry did not know what happened next. One moment, he felt his fingers' grip finally slipping. Or had it actually slipped? He did know, however, that the moment his right hand left the railing, he was... standing? Right there, on the balcony, as if he had never tumbled off solid ground in the first place. Cody was still hanging onto dear life, clinging to Harry's arm.

But now things had become easier. Much, much easier.

“Up you go!” he shouted, now putting both arms to the task. He was nowhere as strong as a trained adult, of course, but he put much pride on his upper body strength by nine-year-old standard.

It took the two kids much struggling, screaming, pushing, pulling, clinging and wall-kicking over the span of five minutes. Only when Cody's left leg was finally unsnagged from the metal railing and the two boys fell tumbling on the hard and completely solid ground did Harry begin breathing halfway normally. 

As usual, Harry got up first, dusting his clothes and reeling in pain when he touched his elbow – a good share of his skin had been scraped clean off for his trouble. Then he turned around and helped pull Cody scrambling back on his feet. The gunner-boy's face was blanched, but both boy and gun were more or less unharmed save for a slight hobble. 

On a more positive note he looked like he was about to swear eternal fealty to Harry right then and there. That part of him that wasn't popping his eyes at what Harry had just done, that was. In fact, he was just about to open his mouth and ask all kinds of questions when the metal door swung open again with a loud creak.

Harry gulped. At the doorway stood a very real and equally  _pissed off_ Instructor Xu, the woman with the face of a lesser angel and the sternness of a greater demon. Arlene was hiding behind her, her teary face absolutely quivering.

“Leonhart,” the Instructor said, her voice dreadful to hear. “ _Explain what is going on here. Now._ ”

***

That moment Xu told him via phone “Commander, we need a talk about Harry. Please do bring Rinoa,” was the moment Squall realized something was  _very wrong_ with Harry. He had thought  _bringing_ Rinoa was way harder said than done those days. She was front and center in the Timber infrastructure buildup effort, and lest anyone say it was easy, upgrading a backward lumber-producing region's roads and ports to be on par with the rest of the continent required as much effort as it did money. Which was to say,  _heaps_ . 

It turned out the words were more affecting to Rinoa than even “Galbadia has torn the treaty and is bringing eleventy thousand men to invade Timber again”. And so it was that the Lady of Timber boarded the first intercontinental bullet train back to Balamb, leaving Zone and Watt with a mountain of paperwork fit for a sorceress who could control time. She even beat him by ten minutes – and Squall was going home by speedboat from Dollet.

“Found your boy barely hanging on to the second floor balcony railing,” Dr. Kadowaki said. “Guess Xu has told you the rest, so I'm just saying the boy's as healthy as it goes. A scratch here and there, but he'd heal before you can say 'how'd you got hurt'.”

“Like mother, like son, I must say.” For once, both Squall and Rinoa glared daggers at her.

_It wasn't funny_ . 

Although, from the two gulps clearly audible from the sick beds, the two boys were perfectly fine and more frightened of what would come when the parents came knocking than reeling from any kind of physical pain. The confirmation of their wellbeing  _finally_ lifted the burden off his heart.

Squall and Rinoa opened the sliding door into the bed area only to confirm that hunch. Harry and Cody had both left their beds, and were standing suspiciously close to the sliding door, hastily turning their little heads up at the visitor.

“Uh... hi, mom,” squeaked Harry. “Ev'ning, dad.” The boy made every attempt to hide his elbow away, the offending elbow now wrapped in white linen and kept barely holding by medical pins.

Normally Squall would expect Rinoa to scoop him up and place him back on the bed. Today was  _not_ normal – and the parents found themselves folding arms looking at the boy for a good long while. “I thought we've already said the second-floor balcony is  _off-limit_ ,” Squall said, his voice chilly. “What have I told you about  _not do what you are told not to do?”_

Squall saw Harry's face sink and immediately felt a little guilty. Still, there was a thing called  _discipline_ that the boy had to have drilled into his head – he wouldn't have his boy turn out like some of the military brats from mainland Galbadia if he could help it. 

“I... I'm sorry,” said Harry, his hands shaking as his eyes darted piteously at Rinoa's general direction.

“I am sure I will have a small discussion with your parents about this,  _Mr. Cody Kinneas,_ ” said Squall with an unchanging tone, causing the other boy to squeak and fall silent as well.

Just then Squall felt an elbow on his side, followed by a soft, yet decisive stare from Rinoa. “That's enough, Squall,” she said, and stepped forward. She slowly dropped on one knee before the boy, and looked him in the eye gently. “Does it hurt, Harry?” Then a sideway glance at Irvine's boy with the same kind of tenderness. “You too, Cody?”

“W-we are fine,” said Harry, and Cody was nodding furiously.

Then the two boys stared at each other, as if trying to silently agree on a  _consistent_ answer. Finally, Harry nodded and turned back to face Rinoa. “It was...” he gulped. “It was my idea, mom. I-I'm sorry. W-won't happen again.” 

There was a glint of relief in Cody's eyes, Squall could tell. Selphie and Irvine had never been quite as strict with the boy as they ought to have been – if he'd get off Squall's hook, that meant he was clear. Meanwhile, Harry was looking at Rinoa with eyes that, Squall thought, would have caused half the female population of Balamb Garden to squee and run over to give him a glomp. He shook his head, at a loss for words.

“You said it yourself,” said Rinoa, stroking Harry on the shoulder. Steel was creeping back into her tone. “You're a grown boy, Harry. I want you to stick to your words next time, okay?”

It was only then that Rinoa scooped the boy into her lap, and gently patted him on the back. Harry looked like he was going to cry. “Come now,” Rinoa said, and whispered in his ears something that sounded suspiciously like “That's my brave little boy.”

Squall's lips was just about to curve into a small smile when he heard footsteps clinking on the infirmary's marble flooring. He recognized the rhythm of Xu's steps without even needing to look.

He turned back to find his subordinate now standing there, saluting him with all proper ceremony. “Commander, sir, and Mrs. Leonhart.” Squall raised his brows a tiny bit. Rinoa had told her – and mostly everyone else – to call her by name in non-work context. Apparently the older subordinate still saw this as “work”.

“At ease,” he saluted back and said, “You wanted to see me?”

“Sir,” she said. “And you too, Mrs. Leonhart.”

Squall and Rinoa nodded at each other.

“Well, you heard the Instructor,” Squall said, glancing at his boy. “Behave yourself, you hear?” He switched to his impersonal, business voice. “That means you, too, Mr. Kinneas.” He thought he heard a  _meep_ coming from Irvine's boy.

“Dad, Mom,” Harry seemed to hesitate for a moment, shooting an almost apologetic look at his friend on the next bed. “I missed you... lots!”

Suddenly, Squall's feet felt like a ten-ton weight were attached to them. Dragging his sole out of the clinic had never been harder, not at least since Rinoa fell into that coma twelve years before.

“We know,” he finally said. Those were the most difficult two syllables he had to spit out in half a year. Rinoa said nothing, but the way she squeezed his palm told him everything he needed to know.

***

“Before we begin, I want to make one thing absolutely clear.” Squall said, matter-of-factly. “There will be no testing, no experiment, no let's-try-to-draw-magic-from-him,  _nothing_ of the sort that would hurt the boy. Have I made myself clear?” Such was his voice the whole room might have frozen over had the weather been just a bit more humid.

“Crystal, Commander,” said Xu, and Rinoa thought she looked more than a little offended. The older SeeD might not look a day older than she had been ten years before, but she  _did_ become a mother some time in between, and thus knew better than hurting a child in any way, shape or form.

“But we  _do_ have to talk about the nature of this... power, so to speak, that he has been exhibiting.” 

She flicked a button on the projector remote control. A slide appeared on the screen before the couple: a series of photos, clearly labeled and annotated.

Xu spent the next five minutes, in her business-like and concise voice, the incidents that had happened with Harry over the previous quarter when both Rinoa and Squall weren't around as recorded by the Garden camera system. Granted, there were not  _many_ of them: hair growing back overnight after being sheared, trying to put on an adult cadet uniform only to find it fit, and at least one incident where he vanished for a blink only to reappear fifteen feet away immediately thereafter. And today, of course, there was that thing on the ledge. For the last incident, there was also a full camera recording. After all, the second floor balcony was essentially a lesser used entrance into Balamb Garden.

As Rinoa looked at the footage she felt like punching herself in the gut. She hadn't pay enough attention to the boy, and he almost had to pay the price. It was only their fortune nothing too wrong had happened to Harry. Xu probably agreed, if her nod was of any indication. As for Squall, however, his expression was unreadable. He kept his arms folded at all time, only tilting his head up and down very slightly once every so often. At last, when the briefing was done, he opened his eyes wide at Xu again.

“When did you start monitoring Harry?” Squall said. “And why didn't you report to me before?”

“For three months now,” said Xu. “And I didn't think it was necessary. After all, Harry could have some latent and benign powers he doesn't know he has. We do have a few such prodigies attending Garden courses over the past few years. I only kept an eye on him for record-keeping purposes. Just in case, Commander.”

She lowered her voice. “But today's incident... it's nothing like the sort we've seen. It wouldn't be right for me to take any action without consulting you both.”

Squall's expression relaxed just a bit. “I see.” Rinoa reached for his hands, only to find them quite sweaty. “I suppose you have a theory?”

“Harry's... power seems to be manifesting in a manner similar to the sorceresses,” Xu finally said. “But that makes very little sense-” She shot Rinoa a puzzled look.

“No, I think it makes perfect sense,” Squall said. “You know what happened that night when we found him, don't you?”

“I do,” Xu said. “I've read the files. The incident was... mysterious.”

“Not in the context of space-time disturbances,” said Squall. “Over the last year we've retrieved through such disturbances, among others, a very large snake that can cast advanced fire magic, a crystal shard with latent power built in it, a golden-feathered chocobo that looks nothing like we've seen them on Terra, pieces of something that looks surprisingly like a gunblade that actually isn't, and a ball that defies physics whenever it comes in contact with water. None of these things are native to Terra,” he added, as if it hadn't been obvious enough.

Xu widened her eyes. “We were never informed!”

Squall leaned towards Xu. “I've kept all of this from every other personnel except Quistis, Zell, Irvine and Selphie. Top secret matter, given our present situation.”

Rinoa nodded in agreement. “We've known it from day one, Xu. Harry is  _maybe possibly probably_ not from this world.” She paused. “I want to let you know there is absolutely  _nothing_ wrong with that.”

“I never said there is,” Xu protested. “But then...”

She exhaled loudly. “What should we do with him now?”

Then silence fell over the room. Squall resumed his brooding – if one thing would never change about him, it was the tendency to just sit there and marinate himself in whatever grim thought of his. Rinoa and Xu exchanged looks, then both stared at Squall.

“What do you say, Squall?” said Rinoa. “I would bring him along with me from now on if you don't object. We've... we've neglected the boy too much these days.” 

Though she did not say it,  _I'll make my decision if you wouldn't_ was written all over her face. Xu was just nodding fervently. Squall was unconvinced. “Harry does need someone else to look after him, but not you.” 

Rinoa exhaled noisily, not sure if she could agree with the sentiment. There had, unsurprisingly, been quite a few people wanting a piece of Rinoa for a few years now. Not that she could help it, being the person she was. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“We try to find someone who can teach him to control his powers.” Squall finally said. “For his own sake, and maybe even for Garden if...  _when_ he becomes a SeeD.”

Rinoa found her hand clamping down hard on Squall's. In the question of Harry's future, she had always been the minority in her own household: when the father was the Commander and the son was so enamored with the idea of working under his dad he'd jumped into training with such fervor, Rinoa had always found her voice of reason terribly unheeded. What she would give to drill into those two thick heads that no, being a SeeD was an Absolutely Abysmal Career Choice (TM) and the only reason she tolerated Squall being one was that they wouldn't have met if he hadn't been.

It really was neither the time nor place to complain, so Rinoa kept her thoughts to herself, though her hand  _had_ to make the protest known. 

Of course, she might as well have been pinching a rock. “Easier said than done, because we don't even know what it  _really_ is.”

Squall paused again, as if gathering his wits about him. “Xu,” he said, “whose ability do you think Harry's seems most like, out of everyone you have taught? Not counting Rinoa, that is. Someone who can spare the time and effort to look after a nine-year-old boy, preferably.”

“Tough question,” said Xu. “I'd say he is exhibiting some clear Time Magic potentials, but he's drawing that power from within himself rather than any kind of para-magic tools. That, and he was doing all of those things... when he's distressed or angry. I would say that-”

Only three words mattered to Rinoa out of everything Xu had been saying “From within himself?” she repeated incredulously. “Where have I heard that before?”

She shot Squall a meaningful stare. Sure enough, her husband was quick on the uptake. “You don't mean...”

“Yes, I do mean it, Squall,” said Rinoa. “ _Ki_ .”

“ _Almasy._ ” 

Squall's brows were jerking just a little bit. Rinoa knew him enough to know a figurative Ultima had just gone off within him.

***

 


	3. Fisherman's Horizon

**CHAPTER THREE**

**FISHERMAN'S HORIZON**

 

It was supposed to be a normal day in the junk town of Fisherman's Horizon for Seifer Almasy and his niece/protege/fishing-pole-bearer Hisame. Until, of course, _something happened_ ; and now he was finding himself sitting in his humble abode, opposite to the two people he'd least want to see together.

He folded his arm and gathered his thought. No, he could no more  _ hate  _ Rinoa than he could a part of himself, and until they went their separate ways he could not see Squall as anything but an adversary rather than an enemy. But put the two together, and the Leonhart couple became the embodiment of that which he  _ could  _ have had but didn't. For a man in his thirties who had both seen the summit of power and the rock bottom of despair (and was currently dangling somewhere in between without knowing  _ where  _ exactly he should be), he would be justified in being a little miffed.

Seifer had seen neither Squall nor Rinoa for ten years now, though it was mostly his own doing. He'd made a conscious effort to stay away from the _famous_ couple if he could help it. On the other hand, he needed to settle down, too, which was why no sooner had Fuujin and Raijin got together (he'd seen it coming in ages, but the two were determined not to look for their own happiness until their 'boss' was fine), he'd left Balamb behind him, come to Fisherman's Horizon, built himself a house of sort, and begun what would be a pretty long life as a career angler and occasional purveyor of monster parts.

Until, of course, the-boy-who-used-to-have-just-reached-puberty and his cloudcuckooland wife showed up. Today.

He could not recall the last time he had stared at Squall and been stared back as hard as now. In fact, he found it amusing that Squall could even recognize him. Gone was his white cloak with a knightly cross, in its place a working man's roughspun coat and undershirt. Gone also was Hyperion, tucked away into a corner of his personal trunk until someone would come calling with a monster extermination request (which would come like once every half a year.) He looked, Hyne cursed him, downright pathetic nowadays, not least compared to what he had been and could have been.

Part of him missed the rivalry and the dueling part of it. It became all the more bitter, then, that he no longer see the old Squall within the stern man before him, even though his face and choice of clothing had hardly changed. While he was a retired fisherman, Squall had become a  _ lot  _ of things, including a father, and it showed.

Without prompting, the three of them lifted their teacups to their lips at virtually the same time. There was just the slightest grimace on his face: Hisame might be a good girl by all account, but her tea was as bad as her father's talent at cooking edible fish.

“So, let me recap,” said Seifer. “You shot down an UFO, found a very much human baby in it, raised him, and just  _ now  _ you are concerned he might have powers unlike anything Garden has ever seen? And to top it up you're convinced his power might be similar to mine?”

“That's a good summary,” said Squall.

“And so you want me to lend a hand... teaching him.”

“Yes, Seifer,” said Rinoa, half pleading. “So, would you-”

Seifer chortled.

“Why are you laughing?” Squall asked, and Seifer could see his knuckle curling up.

“I have, on top of my head, roughly eleventy dozen ways this scheme can go topsy-turvy. For you, for me, or even for the boy,” Seifer sneered in a way only he knew. “And I'm not even thinking. I could be the wrong person, the lad could be a brat, or we might both not know what we're doing and blow ourselves and half the town to bits trying.”

Seifer wasn't exactly joking. He had never really put efforts into finding the roots of his _Ki_ -based powers. Used it, yes. Break it apart and see how it ticked, no, and he could have made a pretty good case why it was a bad idea.

“And you are supposed to be, what, the big guy in Garden these days?” Seifer swallowed his laughter and added. “Good thing I'm out.” It would simply be a waste not to have a jab at Squall at his expense, Seifer thought, although he'd half expected his former adversary to not take the bait.

He was right.

“You know how I roll,” said Squall icily. “Are you helping us, or are you not? I'm sure I can find someone who can help. It's a wide world after all.”

“Depends,” said Seifer, folding his arms. “What do I get out of this?”

“Depends,” parrotted Squall. “What do you want to get out of this?”

Business-like Squall. Well, if that was how his old rival would like to roll, he'd play ball too.

“I guess a million gil wouldn't be half bad,” Seifer said. “That, or the pleasure to torment the great Squall Leonhart's boy for a while.”

To be fair, he did need the money – not the gratuitous amount he'd asked, but a hundred thousand gil would be good enough to renovate his house. That, and he owed the town a huge deal simply for their accepting a former war criminal in their midst with open arms – he'd help pay to fix up the solar array if only he'd got the money.

He looked Squall in the face, as if savoring the I-will-strangle-you-in-your-sleep look on the SeeD Commander's face. “What, can't give me my fee? Then what do we have to discuss again?”

“Seifer... you've changed,” Rinoa said. “The Seifer I knew... isn't as spiteful as this. Was he?” Seifer felt something tightening in his chest. “True, I have, but for longer than you recall,” he said. “It's a free world, you see. I'm no longer a war criminal; I'm a free citizen offering his service and expertise. And I demand compensation for my work. What's wrong with that?”

The next thing Squall said sent a shockwave across the room.

“Alright, one million gil, you said?” Squall spat. “I'll do one better. Two million, and a one hundred thousand annuity on top of that as long as you're teaching the boy  _ well _ .” He glared at Seifer – and for a second Seifer thought he was reliving that practice duel between them the day before their SeeD exam. “But harm him in  _ any  _ way,  _ any  _ way at all, and I will  _ end  _ you.”

“Hah, nice one,” snapped Seifer. “Let nobody say Squall has no sense of humor.”

Squall simply folded his arms and fixed his gaze where Seifer was sitting. The room was dreadfully silent, and Seifer could feel his defiance bleeding out of him as every second ticked.

He swallowed hard. “You aren't... joking, are you?”

“I've lost the ability to _joke_ for a while now,” Squall's face was utterly inscrutable. “Now do I have your word and contract, or shall we take our leave and pretend this meeting has never happened?”

Now it was Seifer's turn to doubt. Sure, he'd known his old rival had had a _perfect_ life so far with a pretty wife, a smart kid and oodles of cash to go around, but this was just absurd.

“Just... one moment. One moment. This doesn't add up.” He tried to steel his voice. “Why are you doing this? The little tyke isn't even your flesh and blood-”

“I don't need to explain to the kind who refuses to understand.” Squall said, and for the first time Seifer thought his old rival sounded almost smug, as if flaunting something he knew Seifer never had and would never have. “You have got yourself a deal. Take it or leave it.”

It was worth noting that Seifer did not understand himself as much as he thought he did. In particular, over the past ten years he had  _ criminally underrated  _ his desire for a challenge. Now his defiance was rearing its ugly head again, in the face of something looking remotely like a rare adversity. Having faced all manners of monsters (including  _ the  _ virtually invincible war god Odin himself) and a global crisis before he even turned twenty, the prospect of babysitting suddenly looked like a fresh breath of air.

He'd be thrice damned before he expressed himself so, however. He was Seifer Almasy, the very definition of  _ I-spit-on-your-pity _ .

“Humph,” he sniffed. “I'll take no more than a million, though I wouldn't say no to the annuity. Yes, give me the boy. But!” He scanned across the room, making sure both Rinoa and Squall were staring at him blinklessly. “I don't teach idiots and chicken-wusses, I thought you know this already. If the kid – Harry, isn't it? If he turns out to be more of the same good-for-nothing, miserable cadets you're admitting in droves into Garden these days, then mark my word, I'll have  _ nothing  _ to do with him, money or no.”

He was half-expecting either Squall or Rinoa – especially Rinoa – to balk. Neither did.

“Condition accepted,” said Squall after a nod at Rinoa. “Your money will be wired into your account as soon as the boy arrives.”

***

Even as he boarded the speedboat to Fisherman's Horizon, Harry's head was spinning. Part of him was positively  _ bawling _ . His parents were about to leave him with a stranger for months on end! Not only that, there would be no video phone, no computer (which meant even less contact with his mother rather than any desire for computer games), no Balamb wind lapping about him, no one he knew, and no idea what the new life would entail. To say nothing about his friends: Without him around, Cody and Arlene might end up beating each other to a pulp every other day, he was sure.

The other half of him was nothing less than absolutely thrilled. He was getting to a new place for once, that wasn't so stiff-upper-lipped like  _ every single place  _ his mother would have otherwise dragged him to. That, and if his father was to be trusted (he always was to be trusted, Harry thought to himself), then Harry's new mentor was supposed to be a  _ ridiculously awesome  _ gunblade master who used to rival the great Commander of Garden himself! Such a legend, as a personal trainer? Harry could hardly imagine a better birthday present.

Needless to say, the boy was unable to keep his calm in the speedboat. Next thing he knew, he was slashing and thrusting his practice sword at air. Nobody told him his would-be mentor  _ hated  _ that sort of hyperactivity. 

He couldn't help it, either way: Harry's head was filled with question. What did the man look like? How awesome was he? What was he going to teach him? Was Harry finally going to lay a hand on a gunblade at long last? Was he going to finally be  _ good  _ at swinging around that kind of behemoth? Then there were other, less positive questions, like how much work he was going to be piled with, or even 'am I going to survive this thing?'. Harry decided those were defeatist concerns, and to be a SeeD meant to be the very opposite of defeatism, and by Hyne he was going to become one of the best SeeD there had ever been. 

His attendant for the day, Aunt Quistis (she might have regained her position as Instructor, but to him she'd always be an aunt rather than a distant Instructor Trepe), was covering her mouth the whole time, giggling at his antics. “Got all your things ready, Harry?” she asked. “Old Seifer, well, let's just say he doesn't have much patience. He'd get you started right away, most likely.”

“That's  _ awesome _ with a capital A!”

“Uh... yeah,” said Quistis, with just the tiniest of hesitation. “Glad to hear you like it.”

Harry immediately dropped the sword and got back to checking his things. He didn't have a lot of possessions; not things he would rather bring along on a training camp at any rate. There was his two training swords, one straight and one curved; two sets of Garden uniform with  _ Harry Leonhart  _ sewn lovingly to the collar; a hot water bottle; several books and the Gilgamesh action figure; a child-sized cellphone and charger; enough change of clothes... and no pocket money whatsoever.  _ Nothing to actually buy in Fisherman's Horizon, _ Harry mentally repeated what his father said the previous night.

“I'll miss the hotdog,” blurted Harry.

“Well, you'd better do,” said Quistis with a smile. “If I've got a gil every time a cadet complains about  _ three certain kids  _ ravaging the cafeteria's hot dog supplies, Harry, I can quit being a SeeD and retire somewhere comfy.” 

“More for Arlene and Cody then,” said Harry. “They need the cheering up more than I do anyway. 'Specially punchy-punch.”

There was a soft smile on Quistis' lips that betrayed quite a bit of pride. “We'll take care of them, Harry.”

A light rumble and the sound of steam pistons disengaging informed Harry the boat had made landfall. One section of the began splitting in half, and at once Harry's nose was overwhelmed by the salty scent of the open sea and the distinctive odor of too many fish. 

Harry stared into the opening, and his jaw dropped wide open. Underneath the opening, a footbridge started expanding towards a boating pier. Above there was the deep blue sky, below, the even deeper blue ocean. And in the background, a wide range of houses and buildings constructed from a mixture of scrap metal and scavenged technology, painting the picture of a  _ very  _ mechanically-savvy shanty town. He'd heard many stories about Fisherman's Horizon, but a picture was worth a thousand words indeed.

_ Disembark,  _ Harry thought, and jumped off the footbridge onto the piers with a vigor alien even to himself. Quistis quickly follow suit. He was so giddy, in fact, that until Quistis tugged him at the shoulder he was just about to wander off exploring.

“Isn't he the hyperactive chap, eh, Instructor Trepe?” 

Harry turned around, and immediately gasped. Before him stood a behemoth of a man, and Harry doubt if he could ever understand how  _ wild  _ and  _ elegant _ could combine so well in a single person. The Seifer Almasy standing before him was unmistakably the one in Garden's files: Tall, blond, excessively large and imposing (and had been so since he was in his teens). 

There were a few differences, however. His white cloak with a red cross emblem had been switched for a black one with white cross, for reasons only known to him. The short-cropped hair he'd worn as a cadet and Sorceress' Knight had been let to grow into a more shaggy mane, and together with the stubble that also wasn't there in his days it lent him the appearance of an aging lion: retired, but far from weak. For some reason, Harry did not see his famed gunblade Hyperion anywhere on his person, and his heart sank just a little. He'd expected to see him pose with it, if not swinging it around, like he used to in the videos.

“Almasy,” said Quistis with a measured cautiousness. “You're back. In shape.”

“Not my initiative, to Squall's credit. Thought I should clean up after myself a little if I am to make a good impression on a certain  _ someone _ ,” he said with a mock bow. “Glad to see you're still finding me charming, Instructor.”

Quistis turned slightly away, and Harry thought in a moment of shock her cheeks turned into a girlish shade of pink. “We'll see,” she said plainly, before folding her arms back and cleared her voice. “Here's the boy. Harry, meet Seifer Almasy. Almasy, Harry. You boys play nice, or the Commander isn't going to like it.” Her sentence was punctuated by a quiet chuckle.

She turned around and bent her knees to Harry's level. “Well, I suppose this is it, Harry. You take care now, you hear?”

“Will do, Aunt Quistis!” exclaimed Harry, and part of him felt like doing a salute right then and there. Then his voice lowered a little. “Could you... well, could you take care of Cody in my stead? Make sure Arlene doesn't bully the poor sod or anything-”

“That's my job, dear,” Quistis said, ruffling Harry's hair. “I'll have them come over in summer, so don't worry, you won't be alone for very long.”

Five minutes, a lot of waving and “goodbye” and a quick drying of tears later, Harry realized, his new life had dawned upon him for good.

“Alright, alright, this drama is getting stale isn't it?” the voice of Seifer Almasy boomed behind him, forcing Harry around. “Let's get started.” 

Now this absolute monster of a man was gazing at Harry with a pronounced attentiveness like an eagle studying its prey. There was cold steel in his gaze, and Harry was forced to remind himself that both his Dad and Mom had told him the man was no threat – not any more – and that he should be respected as any other among their friends and comrades.

“Harry Leonhart, isn't it?” Seifer finally asked, and if the way his lips curled was any indication, he was at least somewhat pleased with what he saw. 

Harry gulped. “Y-yes, sir. At your service, sir,” he bowed with a slight flourish. 

“Ah, cut that crap,” said Seifer with a chuckle. “So, you know what you are here for, don't you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry. “My parents said my... well, my powers, whatever they are, need to be... honed.” Harry was rapidly flicking through his mental dictionary, not entirely sure if he could conjure the right word to match the severity of the situation – in his opinion, anyway.

“Right,” said Seifer with a nod. “And did  _ Commander Squall Leonhart _ ,” there was a certain disdain in the way he stressed on the name and title of Harry's father, “tell you what to expect from me?”

“Do my best,” Harry answered without a thought. “And make him proud, sir.” Harry had, truth be told, made up the second half. Squall had never  _ forced  _ him to do anything by word or action, but his demeanor would tell Harry all he needed to know most of the time. 

“Right.” Seifer nodded once more, then trained his eyes on Harry again. “Well, did he tell you what he expected from _me_?”

Another gulp escaped Harry's throat, but no words. Harry was more nervous than he was afraid, but most importantly, he had no idea. 

“Let me tell you what,” said Seifer as he started pacing around the boy. “He'd given me free rein to train you as I see fit, as long as you are not hurt – physically and mentally – unreasonably. Other than that, absolutely everything goes, for your own benefit.” He gazed at Harry again. “Do you know what that means, boy?”

Harry clenched his fists. “You'll not go easy on me, sir,” he said, and on this count he was proud of himself: there was steel in every word, just as his father would like. 

“Exactly,” said Seifer. “Now, I'm assuming you've got some basic martial training going on-”  
“Yes, sir!” Harry exclaimed, almost screaming. He might not be old enough for the reformed Garden training scheme, but he was certain he would be more than a match for fresh cadets five years his elder. 

“Music to my ears,” said Seifer. “Then I've got a task for you, right here, right now.” 

Then he turned around, and clapped his hand loudly. “HISAME!” he cried. “COME HERE AT ONCE!”

***

When Hisame heard her Uncle Seifer call for her, she was doing what she did best: hanging around the pier fishing. She looked the part, too, armed with her fishing pole and pail and a small melange of fish-baits.

By most standard, Hisame would be the village pariah. Strange mannerism, check. Parents never officially married, check. Brought up by an 'uncle' who was a convicted-yet-pardoned war criminal, check. Never actually went to any kind of school (or had any intention to), check. Never spoke to folk outside her twisted version of 'family', check, check and check.

The silvery-blue-haired girl's only saving grace was that she didn't look entirely out of the ordinary, at least as far as Fisherman's Horizon was concerned. The town was used to her mother, a stern-looking, white-haired woman with a tendency to shout single-word sentences to serve most of her communication needs. They knew her father quite well, too, a hulk of a man whose mind, accent _and_ mannerism were like a lovable country bumpkin. Hisame had inherited her mother's eyes and hair and temper, and her father's dark complexion and simple-mindedness (unless someone would set her off, which wasn't often).

Uncle Seifer had told her – once or twice – that the little idyllic fishing town-slash-junkyard was the only place that had not changed one bit while the rest of the world “went to hell on a rafter,” he said. She wouldn't know, and to be honest she couldn't care less. For all Hisame knew, she was born there and her entire life had been enclosed within the town's iron railings and the sea on all sides.

So it was rather unsurprising that her first reaction to a newcomer was a scowl so fierce the fellow flinched: Harry Leonhart, looking very much like a city mouse lost in a place that wasn't his. In any case, his appearance did surprise her, but just a little. He was certainly not one of those too-well-groomed, bratty rich-man's-son type, she could give him that.

“Hisame,” said Seifer, “Show this pipsqueak what a student of mine can do.” She nodded at his beckoning and came out forward.

“Wait, _what_?” exclaimed Harry. “Sir, I have to fight a-” 

“A girl,” Hisame finished the boy's sentence for him. “Problem?”

Deep inside she felt like laughing out loud, but that would be unbecoming. Her mother rarely laughed, and she could always scare her father stiff with a mean look (and a kick where it hurt, too, but she'd promised not to tell people about it).

“So, let's see how Squall bring you up, boy,” said Seifer. “Bet he groomed you into another  _gunblade user_ wannabe.”

Hisame saw the boy twitch.

“Sir,” he said, and produced from his luggage a straight wooden sword, worn and weathered and spin it around in his hands as if he'd lived most of his life swinging the thing around. The girl could swear her Uncle Seifer had just lifted his brow with something halfway resembling an approving smile on his lips. That was odd – he was never known for his generosity as far as compliment went.

“Sorry, I'm not holding back,” said the boy, turning towards Hisame. He was biting his lit and shivering just a little.

“Likewise,” said the girl with a nod and no shaking.

“Your weapon?”

Hisame gazed nonchalantly at her fishing rod's line, hook and sinker.

“This,” she said, and ripped them all off with a quick movement of her arm, and threw a glance at the new boy's face, twisted with astonishment as it was. Maybe it was just her ego talking, but the boy'd taken a step back. She'd done that maybe about as much as he'd posed with his practice sword. Then around she twirled the fishing pole, and pointed the business end at the boy.

_“This is a fishing rod,”_ Uncle Seifer'd told her as a toddler, after which he'd done exactly what she had just done. _“Now it's a pike. Know the difference.”_

Judging from the look on the boy's face, this wasn't what he expected. His loss, Hisame thought. Her fishing rod was as good a weapon to her as it was a, well, fishing rod. She wouldn't have anything else on the planet even if she could have anything she wanted.

“Go!” exclaimed Seifer, and slashed his hand into the air. 

Then it began.

If Hisame had thought she'd cowed the boy into submission, she'd have to review her assessment after the very first exchange. He lunged at her with a directness that would make a Thrustaevis proud. There was a dry thud as wood met wood – the silver-haired girl found herself pushed back several feet. That was several feet more than she would have liked. 

Harry might have had her beat in the physical strength department, but she was  _faster_ , daughter of wind and thunder and all that, as her Uncle Seifer liked to joke. Still, it took her stubborn self a solid while taking and parrying blows from all directions before she'd realize she could just dance all around the boy, somersaulting, backflipping and spinning like every giddy ten-year-old ever (except not really), and only poke him once every so often. She'd got the longer stick, she'd better make use of it.

A jab narrowly missed Harry's kneecap. Another would have grazed his elbow had Hisame's fishing rod been a real spear. And had she not stepped on a pebble and slipped, her next stab would have caught the fellow on the chest. Her slip gave Harry just enough time to dodge out of the way as her stick whizzed under his arm.

“Why, this is getting predictable,” exclaimed Uncle Seifer from the sideline. “Jump! I know you can!”

“ _Jump_ ?” 

Hisame nodded, and for the first time in a while she was actually smiling. Before Harry could cry “That's unfair!” (which he did), she'd pulled herself two steps back, just enough that Harry's next assault ended up hitting air. Then she drew a deep breath, and with a quick cry, pole-vaulted about ten feet into the air. It wasn't a true Jump like how the Dragoons in the books did, but she'd practiced that way for several months, it'd worked for her, and therefore was awesome. Now she was well behind the newbie, and was ready to give him a poke he wouldn't soon forget.

It was she who ended up hitting air instead. Harry had disappeared right before her eyes a second before victory would have been hers. Without its mark, her own momentum threw her stumbling several feet forward. When she regained her footing and whirled backward, she found a wooden sword's business end pointed at her face at a dangerously uncomfortable distance.

Harry hadn't disappeared, Hisame realized.. He had only displaced himself a few feet to one side when she thought she'd had him. In a manner that defied all physics, no less!

“Do you yield?” said the boy, and Hisame felt like kicking herself.

And then Uncle Seifer raised his arm. “Stop,” he said, and from the serious look on his face, that meant business.

Harry did as he was told. His practice sword went back into its scabbard, and off he bowed.

She had never seen Uncle Seifer looking so... weird. Here was a man, said her mother, who could have taken on the whole world and won, such was his spirit (“MY BOSS,” she'd concluded proudly). Here was a man, said her father, who had tasted pretty much everything that could be tasted: Fine wine, a lovely woman's lips, glory, triumph, power, blood, funny-smelling fish... and of course, defeat and redemption (“He's not given up. Just, had enough of wrestling with the rabbles, ya know?” he would add, if the little girl was curious for more).

Nothing, it would seem, could surprise him any more, not even a six-year-old girl spontaneously trying out a technique thought lost in time and achieving remarkable outcomes with it. And now he was regarding the new boy as though he'd been the most attention-worthy special snowflake on the face of Gaia.

“You,” he said, pointing at Harry with such fierceness the boy almost jumped in fright. “How did you do that?”

“I, uh... I don't know, sir,” he said.

“No magic, GF, or funny  _things_ junctioned?”

“No, sir,” said Harry. “It just happened, and-”

Maybe Hisame was seeing things, but she could swear Uncle Seifer was looking just for a second like he might string the boy up on a torture rack and shock the truth out of him. He did that to  _someone_ once, didn't he? Right? Right?

Those days, as it happened, was long behind him. His expression eased in a blink of an eye.

“Well, lad,” he said, pinching his stubbled chin and nodded slowly. “I am beginning to understand why  _Squall_ of all people would be concerned.” He paused. “Whatever am I supposed to do with you, kid?”

Hisame puffed and un-puffed her chest. Even with her darkest thoughts within her Hisame couldn't see her Uncle Seifer, her parents' boss, her  _idol_ , actually hurting a child in any way that didn't involve extreme training. Which would hardly count as 'hurting' – because they'd be getting better and that would be good for them. 

The silver-haired lass would gladly tell everyone  _she wasn't jealous_ , but she'd be lying.  _Harry Leonhart is not my friend,_ she thought to herself, and otherwise remained silent. 

 

***

It was not a victory Harry was pleased with, and not only because the girl he beat had been glaring at him like he was a love-child of a Malboros and a Caterchipillar for the last hour and a half. No, he'd told himself, he'd won this one by the _strange power_ he had only just been truly exhibiting over the last week or so, and therefore counted as dirty fighting that his father wouldn't quite approve of. He'd carried that face throughout their humble dinner of three dishes of fish.

“So, tell me,” said Seifer Almasy, looking at him from across the tea table now that they'd been done. “When and how did this begin?”

Harry was staring at the mug of brownish, steaming liquid like all the knowledge about life, love and the universe laid underneath the surface. So focused he was, in fact, that Seifer's call managed to startle him a fair bit.

“I don't know, sir,” he finally said after what seemed to him like an eternity scrutinized under Seifer's inquisitive eyes. “Happened several times before – weird things like this, I mean. Whenever I'm angry, or trying really hard to win.”

“Or hanging onto a rickety railing for dear life,” added Seifer. His face read a fine mixture between concern and amusement.

Harry drew a stiff breath and nodded again. “Is it abnormal, sir? Is it something I'll have to...” he gulped. “Live with?”

“Yes and yes,” said Seifer. “Powers like this don't come easy or often, I'll have you know. Nor do they come for no reason.” He clasped his hands and drew himself closer to the boy. “Surely your... parents must have told you about the Sorceress. The Sorceress _es_ , I mean.”

“Sir,” said Harry with a crisp nod.

“How much did they let you know?” asked Seifer.

“That my mother... used to be one,” said Harry, and he was perfectly fine with it. A little proud, even. That was something Cody and Arlene could not claim, even if the former could beat him pretty soundly at the shooting range and the latter could just simply  _beat_ him (and it was a hit-or-miss whether he could beat her back).

“ _Used to be one_ is a way to put it,” Seifer muttered under his breath. Harry thought Seifer's voice betrayed some sort of regret, but he knew better than digging at him for answers that he clearly didn't want to give.

Harry cleared his throat. “In any case, I thought I might have gotten something like this from her,” he concluded. “Could I have, sir?”

“Not bleeding likely,” said Seifer without a thought. “But nice try.”

“Why?” asked Harry. “I mean, my friend Cody got his shooting eye from his dad, and-”

“Because.” said Seifer, and Harry could guess he was trying to hide something – again, something he'd better not ask further if he wanted to learn from the man.

“Either way, you aren't here to have one of those  _scientific debates_ on how you got your power. This is Fisherman's Horizon, not Esthar, and I'm not one funny scientist with a funnier accent. I've got some theories of my own, that's all you need to know.” 

Harry, of course, had question, but he asked no more. It wasn't like him to challenge authority figures – and while Seifer didn't look or sound like the people Harry would normally take for authority figures, right now he certainly was one to him.

“Now all I need you to do-”

Seifer's voice trailed off, his eyes glinting dangerously. “All I need you to do is to help me with something,” he said. “Training.”

Harry widened his eyes – not the  _surprised_ kind of eye-widening, but an excessively happy one. “Sir!” he replied, as if bursting with joy. “Ready for whatever, sir! Please keep it coming!”

There was something vaguely resembling pity in the older man's eyes. “Oh, Squall, you old bastard, you brought this kid up  _too_ well for his own good,” he muttered under his breath. “Well, not that I object. Less work for me's always good if the pay's the same.”

“What do I have to do, sir?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Here, four thirty sharp tomorrow morning,” said Seifer, thumbing at the floor beneath him. “Now I'd better get you settled in, before the _high-and-mighty_ SeeD commander suddenly decides I've bullied his kid or something.” He harrumphed. “Hisame?”

“Uncle.”

The suddenness of the voice did two things, both not very unbecoming for Harry. On the one hand, the silver-haired girl managed to _again_ startle him. On the other, he was starting to think she might be stalking him – the last time he saw her just five minutes before, she was at the sink washing the plates. Now she was standing behind him, arms crossed, feet tapping on the flooring, and looking at him with this _I-am-completely-unamused_ look that might have been comical had Harry been on his home turf.

He wasn't, and felt mildly threatened instead.

“Take the boy to his room,” said Seifer.

“Got it already, Uncle,” said Hisame, and threw Harry a particularly frightening look. “Follow me,” she said.

“Oh, and Hisame?” said Seifer. “Try not to make life  _too_ difficult on him. I don't need him to run back to his old man and complain about how we've  _mistreated_ him. It's a million-gil business I'm running here.”

The girl answered Seifer's concern with a single nod, and then took Harry upstairs.

The house was larger than Harry thought when he at it from outside, although typical for a junkyard town. The first floor, in particular, had three rooms: One at the end of the corridor, and one at each flanks. The one room had a door that exuded _superiority_ , from its size to the solid color of fine wood, and was plastered with a room-number plate that looked just like it'd been pilfered off Balamb Garden ages ago (if the rust was of any indication). The door on the left had a name board that read “ _Hisame's Domain. Look, Don't Touch_ ” and a crude drawing of a girl hitting a fish with a long stick (at least, that was what it looked like to Harry's eyes). The third door, made of a roughly-hammered sheet of iron, looked otherwise completely generic.

Now Hisame pulled Harry like a load of extremely heavy bricks towards that last door. She knocked at it, first quietly. Then, when it became apparent that knocking didn't work, she shoved and pushed and tugged it. When _that_ also failed, she banged at the door so hard the whole wall was shaking.

“Try not to wreck my house up there,” came Seifer's voice from downstairs, and Harry winced. For a moment it looked just like the girl was going to do just that.

Only when the door finally creaked open with a cringeworthy nail-across-chalkboard screech did Harry realize she'd been doing him a service.

“Yours,” she said, looking at him as if issuing a challenge. “Don't like it? We've got a cupboard underneath the stairs if you'd fancy that. _Prince_.” she sniffed.

“No thanks,” said Harry with a shudder. In another alternative universe where Hagrid yet lived, he might have taken offense at the suggestion. The half-giant was six feet under, so Harry didn't.

The solace didn't last long after Harry stepped into the room. The door had opened into a completely empty space that must have been closed for as long as Harry had been alive. And by 'completely empty' _,_ Harry meant _completely empty_. There was not even the bare minimum of furniture: no bed, no wardrobe, not even a coat-hanger – not counting the doorknob. There was the smell of stagnant air and old rust exuding from every surface. Harry could at least rest assured that if there had been insects in the room before, they'd have all starved to death by now. At the very least there was something resembling a window, though given how much effort went into opening the door alone he wasn't sure if a little fresh air was worth wrenching the apparently jammed window open.

Harry stared at the empty floor, then at his luggage, then back to the floor again.

 _Hardship builds character. Hardship builds character. Hardship builds character._ Harry puffed his chest, and focused on the more positive side of things. The renowned and retired, one and only, Seifer Almasy had accepted him into his tutelage, even going so far as giving him _a room_. It could have been a cupboard under the stairs, and Harry could still take it as a boon. Thinking so, he tossed his meager belonging on the ground with a loud thud, turned to his not-so-gracious hostess, and beamed.

“Thanks,” he said, and meant it.

“Hmph,” was the answer. Then the girl left the room without a word.

A thoroughly confused Harry spent the rest of the afternoon practicing the swing of his wooden sword. After all, a room totally devoid of furniture had to be good for _something_.

***

 


End file.
